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Ulysses 

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 1305 

—A sudden—at—the—moment—though—from—

lingering—illness— often—previously—expectorated—

demise, Lenehan added. And with a great future behind 

him. 

The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the 

hallway and pattering up the staircase. 

—That is oratory, the professor said uncontradicted. 

Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of 

the kings. Miles of ears of porches. The tribune’s words, 

howled and scattered to the four winds. A people 

sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic records of 

all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: 

me no more. 

I have money. 

—Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the 

agenda paper may I suggest that the house do now 

adjourn? 

—You take my breath away. It is not perchance a 

French compliment? Mr O’Madden Burke asked. ‘Tis the 

hour, methinks, when the winejug, metaphorically 

speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry. 

—That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All that 

are in favour say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary 

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no. I declare it carried. To which particular boosing shed? 

... My casting vote is: Mooney’s! 

He led the way, admonishing: 

—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, 

will we not? Yes, we will not. By no manner of means. 

Mr O’Madden Burke, following close, said with an 

ally’s lunge of his umbrella: 

—Lay on, Macduff! 

—Chip of the old block! the editor cried, clapping 

Stephen on the shoulder. Let us go. Where are those 

blasted keys? 

He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed 

typesheets. 

—Foot and mouth. I know. That’ll be all right. That’ll 

go in. Where are they? That’s all right. 

He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner 

office. 

LET US HOPE 

J. J. O’Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to 

Stephen: 

—I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one 

moment. 

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He went into the inner office, closing the door behind 

him. 

—Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is 

fine, isn’t it? It has the prophetic vision. Fuit Ilium! The 

sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms of this world. The masters 

of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. 

The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at 

their heels and rushed out into the street, yelling: 

—Racing special! 

Dublin. I have much, much to learn. 

They turned to the left along Abbey street. 

—I have a vision too, Stephen said. 

—Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. 

Crawford will follow. 

Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran: 

—Racing special! 

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN 

Dubliners. 

—Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, 

have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally’s lane. 

—Where is that? the professor asked. 

—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said. 

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Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. 

Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic 

hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint! 

On now. Dare it. Let there be life. 

—They want to see the views of Dublin from the top 

of Nelson’s pillar. They save up three and tenpence in a 

red tin letterbox moneybox. They shake out the 

threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies 

with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one 

and seven in coppers. They put on their bonnets and best 

clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may come on to 

rain. 

—Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said. 

LIFE ON THE RAW 

—They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and 

four slices of panloaf at the north city diningrooms in 

Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins, proprietress ... 

They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a girl at 

the foot of Nelson’s pillar to take off the thirst of the 

brawn. They give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at 

the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly up the winding 

staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the 

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dark, panting, one asking the other have you the brawn, 

praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come 

down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be to God. They had 

no idea it was that high. 

Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. 

Anne Kearns has the lumbago for which she rubs on 

Lourdes water, given her by a lady who got a bottleful 

from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a 

crubeen and a bottle of double X for supper every 

Saturday. 

—Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal 

virgins. I can see them. What’s keeping our friend? 

He turned. 

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, 

scattering in all directions, yelling, their white papers 

fluttering. Hard after them Myles Crawford appeared on 

the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet face, talking with J. J. 

O’Molloy. 

—Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm. 

He set off again to walk by Stephen’s side. 

RETURN OF BLOOM 

—Yes, he said. I see them. 

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